Multiverse Pub: A Match Made in the Multiverse
by MissMelysse
Summary: Imagine that sometime between the end of TNG and Nemesis, Guinan settled on a planet (or returned to the Nexus) and opened a pub. The Pub at the Center of the MultiVerse. Crossover. OneShot. Guinan and Tyrion Lannister.


**The Challenge:**

 _Imagine that sometime between the end of TNG and Nemesis, Guinan settled on a planet (or returned to the Nexus) and opened a pub. The Pub at the Center of the MultiVerse._

 _Your challenge: Write a brief oneshot – a crossover with any fandom you like - that takes place in the pub. Guinan does not need to be a main character, but she has to be in it, even if it's just a mention. Just the setting and our favorite bartender's presence make it a crossover. Direct interaction between fandoms is not required._

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 **A Match Made in the MultiVerse**

 **by MissMelysse**

This pub, Tyrion thinks as the door he pulled open by gripping a conventional metal handle _swooshes_ closed behind him, cannot possibly be in Winterfell. And yet, here he is, stamping snow from his boots and shaking more of the same from his cloak.

At least the dogs didn't follow him inside.

And neither did their masters.

This bar is a good deal cleaner than any he's ever been in. The floor is carpeted – carpeted! – in a shade of reddish-orange that must have been chosen based on its high probability of disguising spilt blood, and the tables are set far enough apart that, if a person were of a mind to, he could woo a woman without an audience.

But he doesn't see any women.

Or rather, he _does_ , but they're all clad in attire that reminds him of winter underwear, albeit in richer colors. (Who wears _black_ underclothes, though?) They leave nothing to the imagination, these… outfits… where the female form is concerned (or the male form, for that matter – the men and women here seem to frequent the same tailor), and yet they are somehow modest, for there are no heaving bosoms waiting for him to 'accidentally' tip his wine into the cleavage and lick it out, nor are there skirts that can be pushed up for a quick turn in a dark corner if a bed isn't readily available.

Speaking of which… not that Tyrion is actually speaking… this tavern doesn't appear to have an upstairs, or any kind of back room.

Scanning the space, he finally decides on a table in the corner, and he settles against the cushioned backrest and forces himself to relax, though he's momentarily confused by the upholstery. It's certainly not leather, nor any other kind of hide he's encountered.

"First time here?" A blue woman – at least he assumes it's a woman as she has curves in all the right places. Then again, she also has antennae. (Maybe he strayed north of the Wall, after all? But his horse hadn't been galloping _that_ fast and visibility, while obscured because of the blizzard, hadn't been _that_ bad.) "What can I getcha?"

If there's one thing Tyrion is certain of, it's what he should order in a bar. "Wine," he answers. "Red. In vast quantities."

"Sure thing, sweetie," the blue woman responds.

Tyrion can't help but stare at the plump curve of her ass as she walks away. _I wonder what it's like to bed a blue woman._

The tavern fills and empties, fills and empties again as Tyrion watches from his quiet corner. He can't remember the last time he's been this relaxed while fully clothed, or at least, not without his cock having been involved in some fashion.

He _can_ remember - barely – the last time he'd drunk this much wine, but oddly, his faculties don't seem clouded now the way they did then. _Is it possible I'm so drunk I've become sober again?_

He's about to pay his tab and find a place to empty his bladder – this is _not_ the sort of establishment where one just pisses against a wall – when a shadow falls over his table.

"Do you always drink alone?" the voice is warm, low-pitched, and absolutely female.

Tyrion looks up into a dark brown face. Darker even than some of the people he's met from the Summer Islands. The eyes are expressive despite the lack of noticeable brows, and the lips are full, and curved into a slightly bemused expression. Instead of hair, she is wearing a hat.

At least, he _thinks_ it's a hat. It's possible the round, flat… thing… is really a weapon. If you threw it the right way, the edges might slit a throat. Or two. Or twenty. Give it enough spin and the right amount of force, and it might even return itself to you.

"Far too often lately," he answers.

"You seem to be enjoying my wine."

"Your wine?"

"As much as anything here is mine, yes. I'm Guinan. I own this tavern. I tend bar, and I Listen."

She puts a capital letter on that last word, and Tyrion sits up straighter, leans forward a bit. She's dressed in garments that obscure her shape, but he's had so much wine, he wouldn't be able to get it up for a naked slave girl laid out on his table, and honestly, sex is easy to come by if you have enough coin.

Good conversation, on the other hand…

All thoughts of his full bladder aside, Tyrion allows a real smile to spread across his scarred face. "Tyrion," he says, not bothering to add 'Lannister' to it. He has a pretty good feeling his family name would mean nothing to this woman. "I drink, and I know things."

His smile is matched by hers, though there remains something inscrutable in her dark eyes. "Mind if I join you?" she asks.

Before he can answer, the blue woman appears with a second glass, which she sets before the other woman. _Guinan_.

Tyrion fills both their glasses. "Please do."

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 **Notes:** Guinan, of course, is from _Star Trek: The Next Generation._ Tyrion Lannister is from the _Game of Thrones_ series. I think this Tyrion is more TV than book, but I have actually read the books.


End file.
